Crown of Stars
by Urchin of the Riding Stars
Summary: 17th century. Russia is ordered by his superiors to win over little America and claim his territory, but he has plenty of competition what with France and England hacking each other to pieces over him. Who will ultimately win over the child's heart? AU.
1. A Wild Goose Chase

Crown of Stars

17th century. Russia is ordered by his superiors to win over little America and annex his territory, but he has plenty of competition what with France and England hacking each other to bits over him. Who will ultimately win over the child's heart? AU.

~*oOo*~

**Hello, everyone. ^_^ Always wanted to do a story with little America, France, England, and Russia...this story probably won't be very long, but I might try to do a sequel sometime over the summer if I get time. Please review, as reviews make for happy authors, and happy authors lead to quicker updates! If I've left any typos or mistranslated, please don't hesitate to let me know. **

* * *

The warm wind made him shiver, though certainly not from cold. Dumbfounded, Ivan slowly tugged off his rough leather gloves, shivering as the soft breeze played over his sweaty palms, sweet and serene like bathwater. His entire uniform suddenly felt much too hot, much too constricting, and if he were not surrounded by his men, he would have loved to strip away his stifling uniform and play about in the sunshine, reveling in the warmth that not even the Kremlin Palace could contain with all its furnaces on at full steam.

But the jeweled sword at his belt reminded him that he had a job to do, and with a sigh, Ivan turned to them. He hid a smile; they were staring at the cornflower blue of the sky, completely transfixed. One of them, a new, naïve soldier still in his teens, timidly stepped forward to Ivan.

"_Вáше превосходи́тельство_….." he murmured timidly, wringing his hands. Ivan gave him a not unkind look.

"Da? What is it?"

The soldier swallowed heavily, his adam's apple bobbing. "Your Excellency…are we…in heaven?"

Ivan smiled back at him, violet eyes glowing. "Nyet. I doubt it. But it is not a bad guess."

If the personification of Russia didn't know better, he'd say it was. The sweet smell of long, lush grass fluttering in the wind, the sun beaming down from an overflowing blue sky, the rumbling sound of a waterfall somewhere in the distance, wildflowers sprouting here and there….

He'd only ever seen the occasional blossom in his homeland, and those were mostly painted in murals, or were shaped from glass into cathedral windows. His now bare hands shook with the idea of touching one that had sprouted from such sweet-smelling, dark soil. Would it be so fragile and delicate that it would shatter in his hands? He dearly hoped not.

_Now_ he knew why Peter had sent him here. He'd thought Peter's rambling description of this place had been little more than fanciful delusions, another cold and wet corner of hell made to look like a lump of pure gold by malicious soldiers. Now Ivan understood why Peter had ached for this place to become an extension of their empire so badly. America, at least in late Spring, was a veritable Garden of Eden.

Clearing his throat, Ivan whistled sharply until he had tugged his entranced men down to Earth, and the chastised men scurried into line. Their leader watched them closely, expression sharp, eyes keen.

"My dear gentlemen," he said in his rumbling voice. His men had come up with the somewhat endearing nickname of "The Bear" for their lord because of it. "Do you know why we are here?"

"Da, to capture America," grunted a middle-aged, stocky man. Ivan frowned at him.

"You misunderstand our mission, soldier. Ours is a diplomatic mission, not one to be solved with muskets."

"Then why are we lugging these around?" complained another soldier, gesturing to the long weapon that was bound to his back. Some chuckled, but the laughter died instantly when Ivan shot him one of his disarming smiles, the smile that was much more deadly than any frown or scowl could ever hope to be.

Once his men had fallen back into a respectful silence, Ivan curtly began again.

"Da, it is true that we may run into the British or the French….though judging by the way they guard their harbor, one would think that neither were here," he said dryly, and this time did not refute his men for chuckling.

Getting into the New World had been shockingly easy. They'd expected to run into a Naval Brigade, a sea of cannon fire, an irate patch of French and English soldiers, who would invariably combine whenever a third party entered into play. Ivan shook his head and smiled inwardly; the two fools fought like an old married couple, a couple too distracted to notice when a fleet of Russian soldiers simply sailed to America without a shot fired. They embarked from their ship just hours ago without a moment's trouble. France and England really were distracted idiots.

Ivan cleared his throat and continued. "Our Great King expects us to win over these new territories for Mother Russia by any means necessary…whether by a formal declaration of war against both France and England or by winning over the territory itself."

His men cast each other slightly troubled glances, but they knew what he meant. They were searching for someone like Ivan. Nodding, Ivan went on:

"The King would much rather the territory turn its loyalty to us, so we might better repulse both England and France and prevent both from making settlements. France should be fairly easy to deter, as he is already eyeing a neighboring territory north of this one, but England will not give in quite so easily. If worst comes to worst and we are unable to win over America, this may yet prove to be an arduous war with many lives lost.

Still, it is possible to win this battle with a stroke of a pen and a few diplomacies. If the identity of a country is truly intent on being one with another, it will be so, and no amount of gunfire or new policies will change that."

His men cast him astounded looks. A very brave soldier stepped forward. It was the gangly youth from before.

"So that is why you have brought the council of lords? Our duty is to charm this nation….this…person…so that we can convince him to join our glorious empire?"

"Da, you speak true."

The soldier looked around curiously.

"But where is he?"

Ivan smiled again. "That is our current mission. We will stay on the quiet side and do our best to leave no sign of our presence in the New World, and we must seek out the nation. Our spies have told us that he was last seen in this general area, so we must scout him out before England and France find him once again and try to entice him to join one of their sides. If we run into either opposing nation, we fight, and we drive them away, for none can withstand the will of Mother Russia."

Some of the new foot soldiers looked nervous, though they tried to puff out their chests and look eager. Ivan's heart twitched in sympathy for them.

"But as I have said, this may yet be a war where no shots are fired. You have been fine men throughout your journey, and I would hate to lose any of you. Keep your eyes and ears sharp, like that of a hare's, at all times, even when you sleep. If you see even the slightest sign of the nation, I don't care where you are, what you are doing—you are to send word for me _immediately_." His words became icy, eyes intense. "It doesn't matter if I am in a meeting, if I am marching, sleeping, if I am taking a bloody constitution by the river—you are to find me and tell me exactly what you have seen. If you can detain the nation, do so, but not forcibly, lest you scare him away. Have him wait until I might see him. Is that understood?"

A sea of assent. But the young soldier still looked unhappy.

"Is this nation much like you?" he squeaked, squirming when all eyes rested on him. "I-I mean, I have heard descriptions of the human France and England with their men, and they do not sound much like you. What does this country look like in human form? Do we look for...another you?"

Ivan slowly shook his head.

"Nyet. I am glad you asked. I have the description of the nation right here." He pulled out an envelope with a broken red stamp, but he didn't bother to open it. He'd read the description of the human America so many times he'd memorized it. A boy with rosy cheeks, despite the fact that he'd been living in an uncivilized wilderness for who knew how many years. Hair like dark gold, eyes like lapis lazuli, the warm American skies. Dressed in a little gown England had managed to squeeze over him when he'd discovered that the nation had no clothes.

"First of all, we look for not a man, but a child."

~*oOo*~

His soldiers had been bewildered by their mission, and many were annoyed by what they thought was a task beneath them (Whoever sang heroic songs about soldiers who went to look for a little boy in the wilderness?), but most were just relieved there was no need for any real action yet. They found a few neglected campfires here and there on their march, which indicated that yes, there were other factions here, but they didn't seem to be in the area. Refusing to ride on his white horse, Russia marched with his men, violet eyes alert and watchful.

As the day went on and no sign of the little boy could be found, Ivan had permitted his men to sling their cloaks over their shoulders as the sun continued to beat down over them. As they marched, Ivan could not help but pick up a stray flower or unusual looking leaf so that he could record them in his journal later on. Peter would expect him to bring a full report of his findings in the New World, and he couldn't deny his fascination. Some of the leaves on the trees grew as large as his hand!

At night came on, an unsatisfied Ivan finally allowed his men to make camp, wishing that they could cover more ground. When his spies had last reported to him, the little nation had bolted away "like lightning" when France and England ran into each other and went for each other's throats. Thankfully Sweden and Finland had already been expelled from America and had their villa torn down, else Ivan would have even more to contend with then he already did.

As he sipped at his soup in his tent, making notes in his journal and pressing in the various herbs he had found that day, Ivan's thoughts went out to the little nation, all alone and very possibly scared in the dark. As far as England and France could tell, the little boy had gotten along quite well before they came along, but what if France decided to waylay America with treats and spirited him away on one of his ships? What if England lured the little child to him using clever wordplay and exploited him horribly? He was just a boy, after all.

Ivan uneasily bit his lip as he listened to his men chatter around the campfires outside. He was no good with children; the little ones back home in Moscow fled at the large man's approach, and even the monarchs were generally afraid of letting him near their little ones, afraid that Russia AS Russia would want to hurt them! Him, the very spirit of the country!

Ivan sighed sadly, and blew out his candle for the night when a few hours had passed by. He didn't feel well.

Fighting battles was something he had done for only too many years. Winning over youngsters was another thing entirely. The child would probably flee at his approach, wither and sob before running behind the less-intimidating England or France.

Children made him unhappy, reminded him of what he could never be. Ivan was a country, unable to marry and have a partner who could stay with him the rest of his days. He was unable to be a father, to be Ivan instead of just _Russia_, and have the comforts of a precious child that would not see a scary man but a Papa.

_'Peter, why me?'_ thought Ivan sadly. _'This is something your smooth-talking ambassadors should be doing, not I.'_

He'd told him as such, but Peter had insisted. "_If there is a fight, you are more than prepared for one,"_ the monarch had said in his grand throne room. "_And if you will have to charm a child, I am positive you can do so, Ivan. How hard can it be? Give the _malchik_ a few sweets and you will be sailing back to Russia in triumph."_

He'd patted the kneeling Russia on the arm, smiling. That was one of the things Russia truly appreciated about his ruler, who treated him as Ivan and not just Russia. The king had sounded so confidant, but Ivan wasn't so sure….

He couldn't bear the idea of the little nation running away from him. His king had ordered that he fetch America and bring him back home to Moscow for a short while, but the idea of trussing up a terrified child like a wild bird and forcing him upon a ship to a strange new land made even the world weary battle veteran quite ill.

Even if he was ordered to, could he in good conscience subject a child to that?

Ivan turned over in his bedding, scowling slightly. Damn it, why was he being fretful over what had to be the easiest of missions ever? His country could perhaps increase their wealth five times over without a drop of blood shed, and here he was fretting about some strange boy! He was being ridiculous, so ridiculous he wanted to run out of his tent with a lantern, and call out for the nation in the dark.

~*oOo*~

In the morning, Ivan rose while most of his men still lay sleeping, having slept fitfully. He clasped the shoulder of a weary soldier on watch duty and relieved him before he headed off into a small patch of trees, feeling the ground rumble beneath his feet. Yes, there was definitely water nearby, which was good. His men could fill up the wineskins and stay hydrated for the day's march.

Soon enough, Ivan approached a beautiful little brook, which had water bubbling over the rocks, making a happy laughing sound. As he splashed his face and filled his wineskin, he thought of how lovely the water would look when the sun came up, and so he waited patiently for a few minutes as the sun slowly crept up. He could not wait very long, considering sunshine was so precious and imperative in their search, but he would be just a moment.

He wasn't disappointed; the water shone like gold as the sun slowly rose, twinkling and sparkling like a thousand stars. He watched a trout with silver and gold scales swimming underwater and Ivan smiled, pleased. This truly was the land of plenty. His men would enjoy fish this morning for breakfast instead of just hard bread.

Ivan reluctantly retreated, only to accidentally take a wrong turn. Annoyed with himself, he was about to return to the discreet trail he had made so he would not lose his way, only to turn and have his breath taken away.

No, this _was_ heaven. It had to be.

There, beyond the woods, was a clearing of a thousand little suns waving in the morning light, greeting the astonished nation. Sunflowers. Knees buckling, Ivan slowly approached the little sea of flowers, mouth dry and open in a soundless gasp.

_Sunflowers_. He had seen the enormous, cheery heads in a story book before, but he'd dismissed them as a mere fanciful scribble, something incredibly pretty but not truly _real_. They grew on enormous green stems, yellow petals perfect and beautiful against the rich blue sky.

Shaking his head and wondering how he would ever tell Peter of this, longing to eternalize this image so that it bled into his eyes, Russia slowly approached the sea of flowers, daring to unwrap his light purple scarf from his neck and unbuttoned his military overcoat. He tentatively reached out and touched a petal, marveling at its softness, delighting in its fuzzy little center, running a fingertip over its tough stalk. So many, and all so beautiful and hopeful.

For a moment, he stood there, transfixed, until one of the sunflowers sneezed, yellow petals shuddering.

"Aa-choo!"

Startled, Ivan's hand flew to his sword, and the man immediately dove into the stalks, ready to tear apart the enemy soldier he was certain was waiting for him. For a moment, he panicked. Were his men surrounded?

But he found nothing for a moment. Scowling furiously, he detected a hint of movement and whipped through several stalks, finding a little clearing and the source of the sneeze.

There, sitting on a stone, was a little boy dressed in a light blue gown with a small ribbon at the throat. His hair looked like spun gold, and his eyes were the precise shade of the sky overhead. His back was to the astonished Ivan, and he didn't seem to notice that the man behind him. With his free hand, the child was poking at something—at what, Ivan had no clue. It looked like a worm with fuzz, arching up to move and then arching down again, wriggling on a stalk. The child giggled at it, and Ivan couldn't help but smile at the sound of his laughter.

The descriptions had done him ill justice. He looked like a cherubim!

The boy sneezed again, turned after a moment of scrubbing his nose, and his eyes widened when he saw the strange man in uniform, who had forgotten that his sword was still raised. With a startled squawk, the child scrambled to his feet, looking terrified. Stomach pooling with cold dread, Russia immediately sheathed his weapon and held his hands up, worried.

"_Nyet, nyet_, I will not hurt you," he said anxiously, taking a cautious step forward. "I am a friend, I—w-wait! _Перерыв_!"

But the little boy had already turned and dashed into the field of gold and Ivan chased after him, blinking in dismay and confusion. He had to keep searching for a little blur of blue, because the child looked right at home with these flowers with which he blended in so well—

"Wait!" cried out Ivan again, winding around several stalks. Gracious, this child was fast! No wonder he was perfectly capable of outrunning not one but two armies! "Stop, _pajalasta_! I only want to talk to you! Please don't be afraid of me! **WAIT**!"

Whimpering with fear, the boy only sprinted faster, and Ivan had to run with all his might just so that he could keep up. After awhile, Ivan sprinted out of the sea of sunflowers, chest rising and falling with exertion.

The child was gone.

With a strangled shout and a stream of swearwords, Ivan had thrown his cap on the ground, face buried in his hands, feeling more frustrated and hopeless than he had for years.

~*oOo*~

His men tore the sunflower fields apart, much to his consternation, but the nation could not be found. His advisers tried to cheer the despondent Russia up; at least they knew the boy was in the area now and could soon pick up a trail, but that failed to bring any vigor to Russia's eyes or a spring to his step. He refused to sup after another long day's search, and unhappily stared at the ceiling of his tent, wondering how he could possibly approach a child that seemed scared to death of him.

Perhaps it couldn't be helped, but it seemed likely he would have to kidnap the nation in the end.

Ivan didn't sleep a wink that quiet night, which was only permeated by the ominous hoots of owls in the wilderness, and the gale's sorrowful lullaby.

* * *

**Poor Russia. :-( Not an ideal first meeting, huh? But what do you think is gonna happen when everyone and their grandmother is out for a piece of the American pie? The kid's scared to death by you. **

_Вáше превосходи́тельство=Your excellency_

_Da=Yes  
_

_Nyet=No  
_

_Malchik=Little boy  
_

___Перерыв!_=Wait!

_Pajalasta=Please  
_


	2. Little Star in the Rushes

~*oOo*~

They didn't find America the next day, as Ivan had hoped.

Or the next.

Or the next.

Ivan was at the forefront of every search, peering into every cave and little burrow a child of America's size could fit. He would have insisted that his men continue to search with lanterns into the night if he weren't afraid of losing precious oil and of depriving his men of much needed sleep. He kept skimming over the area, dispatching men over several different areas; but still no luck. His soldiers were dumbfounded that such a small child could give them such trouble, and they were steadily becoming demoralized as the days went by. Ivan did his best to keep their spirits up, but his own were in rapid recline.

A group of his soldiers had run into a French unit a few miles North of their present location, and were foolish enough to pick a fight. The French were low in numbers but keen in supplies, and so Ivan's men had run back with their tails between their legs. Ivan could have flogged them all for their stupidity, and for the other news they'd brought back: France was nearby, searching for America too. Worst of all, England was very likely skulking in the shadows, waiting to snatch away America when he had the first opportunity.

It was astounding to Ivan how _personal_ this had come to him. Certainly having American colonies would be beneficial for his people, having a new land where they could flock to and prosper out of the chill—but Ivan just desperately wanted to find the boy, apologize for frightening him, make him see that Ivan wasn't truly nasty.

It was bad enough that the few human friends Ivan had all died in what felt like seconds to the ancient nation, and that so few nations besides his sisters looked kindly to him. But he was determined that little America not hate him, not fear him. The idea was intolerable, and kept Ivan wading through swamps even when he shook with exhaustion.

~*oOo*~

One morning, when Ivan had gotten up early again to scout the new terrain, he was immediately taken aback by two voices clucking furiously at each other like a pair of angry hens. Bewildered, he immediately had hidden behind an oak, and peeked outwardly, frowning.

He very nearly smacked his forehead, not sure whether to laugh or bury his face in his hands. Of course. The two opposing countries had found each other and decided to resolve their differences by screaming in each other's faces. If Peter had these morons in office, he would have surely killed them by now. Ivan fingered the hilt of his blade, not certain if he should lunge out in a surprise attack, or simply enjoy the show.

"—foppish frog, now Russia's arrived, if you'd just gone home when I'd told you to, my little brother wouldn't be threatened—"

Francis had let out a dark chuckle as the two circled each other, Arthur glowering at him as though he could make him burst into flames just by doing so.

"—_your_ little brother? _Hon hon hon_, that is hilarious! I care too much for my little brother to expose him to a strictly charcoal diet in your pitiful hands, bookworm! Leave the poor _cheri_ alone and let him come home to France, oui? There I can teach him useful things—"

"What, like drinking, eating cheese and fondling up little boys, you barmpot?"

"You are a hypocrite, you tea-drinking Fur-licker! What about that king of yours, who gives his ladies the chop-chop whenever he wearies of them, oui? You are frightening mon poor _petit frère_!"

"You mean MY brother, you wanker! Your country is governed by prostitutes!"

"And you, _monsieur_ England, are a great, big—"

Ivan pulled away, coloring slightly as Francis' colorful choice of words broke over the forest. Uggh, how revolting.

There was no point in going after either of them on his own, Ivan reasoned as he headed back to camp. As much as they hated each other, they would far prefer to be left alone to tear each other to bits on their own terms. No wonder poor little America kept running away from them.

Head aching, Ivan decided that he wanted to be alone someplace quiet where he could gather his thoughts. He walked deeper into the wood until the sounds of England and France saying rude things about the other's mother finally disappeared, and the stillness gave way only to the sound of birds chirping overhead and the nearly inaudible thud of his footsteps.

Taking off his hat, Ivan settled upon an old stump and raised his head upward, delighting in the calm when a rustle from the bushes startled him.

Tensing inwardly, but outwardly betraying no sign that he had noticed anything, Russia's eyes slowly floated over his shoulder, where a great many bushes waited behind him. Great. There was very likely a wild beast or an ambush waiting for him behind those shrubs. He hoped it wasn't the latter—he didn't particularly feel like getting blood all over his scarf—though he supposed a fight might help him vent out his frustrations.

"Come out," he said calmly. "I will not hurt you."

Of course, if it were any enemy soldier, Russia didn't mean it in the slightest. But the words would at least startle the spy, and perhaps prompt him to attack. Russia fingered one of his daggers inside of his pocket. Perhaps they would have news on the little country…?

A pause. The hairs on Russia's neck stood on end, or they would have been, had they not been tapered by his scarf. Then, the bushes startled to rustle again, and ever so slowly, like a meek bunny, a little yellow head popped out of the greenery, like a sunflower in bloom.

Ivan's breath hitched and he resisted the urge to move his hand from his weapon as though it were a hot coal. But he definitely didn't want to frighten away the boy again, so he slowly planted his arm at his side for a moment, making no sudden moves. The child looked anxious, but not unduly frightened. Ivan gave an uncertain nod in his direction, and America awkwardly returned it.

Russia smiled. He could call for his men later when he was certain he held at least a grain of the little one's trust. "P-_Privet_," he said smoothly, feeling his palms prickle with sweat underneath his gloves. Damn it all, why was he so nervous talking to a child? "I am glad to see you. I am sorry for startling you in the sunflower parch-it truly wasn't my intention to scare you. Thought you were a soldier lying in wait or some wild beast about to attack. I...I hope you are well?"

His voice was unnaturally high, and he inwardly slapped himself, feeling like an idiot. Why oh why did Peter send this oafish, scary man to reason with a baby?

America warily considered him for a moment, eyes lingering on his sword, and then passing over Ivan's dark uniform with the gold cuffs and medals and embroidered shoulders.

"Y-you're not France or Engwand," he said at last, staying in the safety of the bushes. Ivan smiled, though he was panicking. _Was the little one accusing him?_

"_Nyet_, I am not. I am new here. My name is Russia. What is yours, little one?" Probably better not to freak the child out by letting him know just how _much_ Russia already knew about him...

Looking slightly assured, America slowly inched out of the bushes, like a shy puppy offered a treat.

"'m Am'rica," he said proudly, puffing out his little chest. "It is nice meeting you."

"Your English is very good," said Russia slowly, feeling pain blossom behind his ribs. Had he already decided to live with England?

"Thank you," said America happily. "Speak France's words too. Can because all his friends are here lookin' for me." The happiness seemed to evaporate out of his words. "France's words fancy."

"Could you speak to me in Russian?" asked the man, and was astonished when the little boy softly returned "_Da_." This was amazing. Absolutely amazing. "Used to be able to say things in Finnish and Swedish, but harder now."

Astonished, Russia just gave him a weak smile, twiddling his fingers. Where did he go from here, where did he go from here?

"I heard France and England somewhere nearby. They seemed awfully set on finding you."

He immediately regretted his words; America looked pained, and the little boy plopped down on the grass, unhappily poking at a stray wildflower. Russia sighed.

"Do you like having them here, fighting over you all the time?"

"No," the child said sadly. "When they first came, they were both very nice. Engwand and France come to play, new friends. France brought me yummy things, and Engwand took me on his knee and told me stories. Good stories," he breathed, blue eyes twinkling. "And Engwand tells them good. I _see_ them with his voice."

To his surprise, Ivan felt a sharp stab of jealousy in his heart, and immediately decided he would test out his own story-telling skills sometime. Surely he could find a lovely Russian fairytale that would make the sweet little boy wriggle with glee. The thought sent a warmth throughout his body which radiated all the way to his toes.

Ivan's attention was recaptured by America's voice. "Engwand told me if I just went with him on his big, big bird that has white wings and swims across the sea, I would get all the 'tories I ever wanted. I was about to say yes when France showed up." America shivered, the memory clearly striking an unpleasant chord within him. "And he was mad. Very mad. He said some things to Engwand. I don't know what they mean, but Engwand said that if I wanted to be a…a…what do you call a man who is gentle?"

"A gentleman, America."

"Oh. Well, he said if I wanted to be a gentleman like him, I wasn't supposed to repeat France's words, or think them. Ever. France got mad and told Engwand that he was taking his little brother away, and he gave me something very, very good!" America's face lit up. "It did not taste like honey, but it was sweeter! Sweeter than _honey_!" he seemed alarmed at such a concept. "It were very sweet and good, and France told me I could have all the very sweet things I wanted if I would go with him on HIS big bird with white wings across the sea!"

He paused in his narrative, and visibly began to droop, like a sunflower nearing Autumn. Ivan resisted the urge to take him by the shoulders and comfort him, lest he scare away the little country again.

"They started to scream at each other," the child said miserably, shaking his head at the memory. "They brought out their pointy sticks and waved them at each other. I thought they were playing. They weren't."

To Ivan's horror, America's voice sounded like it was dawning close to tears. He tried to reach out for the country and pull him close, but America skittered away like a spooked horse, and Russia respectfully withdrew, though not without regret.

And anger as well, though it wasn't directed at America. What the _hell_ had France and England done to the child to make him so wary of touch, of affection?

"Tried to play too, but I got scared by all the loud noises they were making and ran off," said America quietly, picking up a handful of grass and dropping it back on his lap. "Then they found me again, and they chased me! They both said I had to come with them if I wanted to be their fwiend. I asked them if we could all be fwiends. They laughed and said no and chased me again."

America wearily rocked back and forth, back and forth. For the first time, Russia recognized the shadows underneath his eyes.

"Hide in cave with bears," he said resignedly, shrugging as if it were the smallest thing in the world. Russia's jaw dropped. The boy could not be _serious_.

"B-Bears?" he asked, dumbfounded. The boy nodded.

"Bears warm. Bears sleep in winter. I stay by bears in winter when gets too cold." America rubbed his hands together and blew on them. "Or I walk and walk and walk and find people walking to very warm places, so I go with them and they let me ride with them. They're very nice. Their food is better 'en Engwand's."

Russia just stared at him, remembered his mouth was hanging open, and shut it, blushing slightly. America must be talking about the Native peoples here. But…

"…bears?" he asked again weakly, feeling sick. If a bear came within 100 yards of America, he'd have his men shoot it on sight. America smiled absentmindedly.

"Bears friendly if you don't step on 'em when you are going outside and they are s'eepin'," he said thoughtfully, and Russia prayed America did not know this by firsthand experience. "Warm and fuzzy. Yell lots less then France and Engwand," he said dryly, and a smile appeared on Russia's anxious face in spite of himself. "But bears gone to get fish before they start s'eepin' when very cold! Hide in caves from Engwand and France's men, but too dark and scary all alone. Hide in bunny homes when I can fit, but they find me and they take me to their camps and bring Engwand and France. They both tell me that I don't hafta be alone no more, but I gotta choose 'em and I gotta choose 'em _now_."

Tears formed in the corners of America's eyes, and Russia knelt to offer the child his handkerchief. America fearfully eyed the man in his uniform, sizing him up. Ivan smiled sadly.

"Nyet. You do not owe me anything for this. I just hate to see such a sweet face in tears."

America made a face as he gratefully accepted the lacy handkerchief, wiping his nose with it. "Not sweet. 'm strong," he insisted. "France keeps pinching my face all day long and tells me that it is sweet and nice. I do not like that, but I like his sweet things." America licked his lips again, and Russia swallowed, suddenly feeling very nervous.

"O-oh. Did you know that my country makes sweet things, too? I hope you would like to try them," he murmured, hating himself for stooping so low, but eager to keep America's mind from wandering too much to the tantalizing prospect of French cuisine. Fond as he was of the little one, he still needed to take him back home to Russia so Peter could formally annex America as a dependent state of Russia, and he would much rather have the child go willingly.

Russia put his hand in his pocket, but only found a dry biscuit left over from this morning. Frowning, he took it out and offered it to the child, who eyed it curiously. "Sorry it is not much, but are you hungry?"

America stared at him suspiciously. "Does it taste like Engwand's food?" he asked cautiously, making another face. "Engwand gave me food once. He called it 'bread.' It did not taste good at all. Very hard and not like France's food and not good like berries or honey or fish. Very, _very_ bad food. Gave it to raccoon when Engwand wasn't looking. The raccoon didn't like it either."

Russia chuckled. "Well, it is simple, but should not be horrible." He offered the biscuit again, and this time, America hesitatingly took it with a soft word of thanks. He nibbled on it cheerfully, licking the crumbs from his fingers as he finished it up. "Not like France's, but good."

Russia smiled, and let out the breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding.

"I'm glad…America, are you eventually going to choose to leave with France or England?"

America looked down at his little hands. "I…I dunno. I keep running, but they keep chasing. Everywhere. Scary," he admitted, curling up in a ball, and flopping down on his back. "Want all us be friends, but no good. I don't know."

Russia bit his lip and sighed again, looking away. The boy was so innocent, so pure, so naïve. The idea of someone being treacherous or dishonest simply confused him; it was an abstract concept.

"The world is an unkind place," said Ivan gently, daring to ruffle the child's hair, thrilling inwardly when the child allowed him. America did not look happy.

"Would be nice, not be alone," he said, looking up at the fluffy clouds drifting overhead. "I just don't want 'em take me away. Want to go with and be with someone like me because they want me. But…"

The tears started racing down America's face again, and before the child could scramble away, Russia pulled the boy into his arms. "They want me for my land so theirs is bigger. No want me. No want _me_." He sounded distressed. "No one want _me_."

Although encouraging such thinking might work in Ivan's behavior, the burly country found that he could not bear it. He squeezed America in a tight embrace, feeling hot tears land on his jacket.

"Nyet," he said firmly. "They want you to be their little brother because you are like sunshine. Sunshine makes everyone happy. England and France want to take sun to their own countries because they want the people to see you and be happy. You are beautiful and good boy, and they do not see that they are hurting you."

He paused, feeling the wind brush over his silver hair, and squeezed America reassuringly. The country had buried his face into Russia's shoulder.

"I do not want you to be afraid," he said gently. "I do not want you to listen to shouting. Even if you were not America, I should like very much to be your friend."

America hesitated, then withdrew his swollen, tearstained face.

"Really?"

"Da," said Russia with a smile, pressing his forehead against America's. But his tone abruptly became more serious. "If they are making you hurt, America, I should like very much to make them go away," he said, brushing aside a lock of America's hair and tucking it behind a sunkissed ear. America hiccuped.

"H-how?"

Ivan smiled hopefully. "If you would come to my camp and agree to become one with my country, I can—"

What happened next, he did not anticipate. With a cry, America jumped free of his arms and leapt onto the ground with surprising agility, whipping around to face the stunned man. His teary eyes looked angry. They looked _hurt_.

"Thought you wanted to be friend," said America sadly, rubbing at his sad eyes with his fists. "But you just like them. Don't want me. Just want land for country. No, no. Not my friend."

Ivan's heart swelled against his ribcage painfully out of sheer dread. He swallowed, and took a step forward, arms opened entreatingly.

"Nyet. D-Didn't you hear what I just said? I want to be your friend. I want to protect you. I—"

America clapped his hands over his ears and frantically shook his head; Russia grabbed hold of him and wrestled him close, while America strained desperately against Ivan's arms for freedom.

"Shhh. Shhh, America, I am sorry, but I must have you come with me. We will be very good friends, da?" Ivan sucked a deep breath through gritted teeth when he saw America was weeping again. "Oh, my little America, do not cry, I—"

**_BANG!_**

A gunshot roared out from behind Russia, and the startled man dropped America before he whipped around, grasping for his sword, swearing under his breath. To his disgust, he saw England lower a smoking rifle, green eyes flashing at him from across the wood.

"Russia, England has no ill will toward your country," he said threateningly, raising the heavy musket again with some difficulty. "But if you continue to attempt to take my little brother away, I will see it as an act of war! You and your men have three days to retreat from English territory with a warning! **Retreat this instant**!"

Russia smiled gently, imagining England thrashing like an eel as Russia held him underneath the river until his flailing died away to a resigned twitching. But before Russia could make throttle the Brit, another voice rang out in the clearing:

"_Oui! _That is right! But you are mistaken, England! This territory belongs to the God-loved country of the French!"

England angrily turned his gaze to his nemesis, letting out a series of swear words most unfit for a gentleman and much more appropriate for a pirate. "Back off, you knave! I just rescued my little brother, and now he and I will return home! Isn't that right, America?"

There was no answer. Russia turned around again with a cry, only to be met with…nothing.

America had run off again.

England dropped his musket with a roar. "NOW you fools have done it! You've scared my poor baby brother again, and now the lad's lost! He could get hurt in this savage wilderness, and all you care about is arguing!"

"Oh, that is rich! When you talk so savagely, the boy must think you a terrifying beast! Let me take him home to a gentler race, where he will not be sorely persecuted by the likes of you!"

Russia ran away from them both while they were arguing, desperate to find the little boy again before it got dark. He had to hear that the boy forgave him, had to know the boy was safe.

He heard an audible _plop_, froze, and looked down with a groan. There, shining dully in the grass, was his heart.

Check that, he had to press that painful thing back inside.

* * *

**Hey guys. For those of you who don't know, Russia's heart sometimes comes out of his body, but he doesn't die or anything. (?) Check out the Hetalia strips!**


	3. A Sick Child in the Night

**Hey everyone! Sorry it took so long...don't really have any excuses. _ In this chapter, stuff happens. :D Please read, review, and enjoy!**

~*oOo*~

* * *

Russia and his men dug into the briar patches until their hands were raw and bloody, and called out until America's name until their voices were hoarse. Russia was desperate to leave no tree unchecked, no stone unturned. Only when nightfall came did the nation call off the search; his small brigade had but a limited amount of oil, and most of his men were too exhausted to carry on anyway. Many of them glared at their commander's back with resentful eyes, though Russia was too tired and troubled to care. Upon arriving back to camp, he penned a letter to his ruler and lay on his cot, though he did not sleep.

He could faintly hear the shouts of English and French soldiers in the distance, and knew they were still searching, despite the darkness. Russia seethed underneath his thin blanket and imagined putting a bullet through France or England's eye. It was a remarkably attractive picture.

But what if America were to see such a thing? Russia's hands clenched so tightly around the scratchy material that he accidentally tore it in two. Swearing harshly underneath his breath, Ivan irritably threw the blanket off and buried his face in his hands. A painful lump rose to his throat, and the Russian's violet eyes became over bright in the darkness.

This was America's terrain, and if he truly wanted to disappear, Russia knew he could do so. But he also knew that if America wanted the nations to leave badly enough, the forces on this strange and alien continent could turn against them. Considering how _desperate _and _angry_ the child had looked earlier, Russia wouldn't put it past him to want everyone to simply….disappear.

Russia let out a shuddering sigh, his fingertips wandering up to massage his aching temples. _Oh, Peter, what have you done?_

Scourges of America's mysterious natives might appear brandishing tomahawks, or surges of wild beasts might come to try and tear the soldiers apart, regardless of how many bullets they shot into their numbers. And while Russia had little control over his climate, he had noticed throughout the centuries that his disposition was indeed a factor in controlling his weather. If he was determined enough, howling storms could break out in his homeland that would freeze the marrow in an invader's bones.

Would happiness ease the chill in his homeland? Russia had no idea. If the weather back home reflected at all his mood, he sensed that there would be biting winds sweeping through the countryside, desolate and inconsolable, like the sound of a suffering child. He bit the inside of his mouth until he tasted blood.

Russia dully wondered about the horror stories his sentries had picked up from enemy soldiers about the bitterly cold winters here. But how could there be such a thing in this paradise? The world grew lovelier day by day; why, the leaves were just now shifting from emerald to beautiful scarlet, orange, and gold. Truly astonishing, but the idea didn't console Russia in the slightest. He wanted to rush away from his men and search the woods over until he at last recovered the child and _made_ him understand that Russia was not heartless, that Russia was also painfully lonely.

The nation grabbed his boots, but let them drop from his hands back to the earth. No. If he left right now, even if he came back before dawn, his men would sense something wrong, perhaps suspect that they had been abandoned. Peter would never allow it, and he had his duties to think of. If enemy forces ventured to his camp, someone had to lead the Russian forces, else many of the young soldiers would be trampled like children.

Russia hugged his knees to his chest and stared at the fluttering fabric of the tent wall, from behind the moon glowed softly through. It seemed like days before it at last gave way to the great sun, red as blood.

~*oOo*~

_Recollection for His Imperial Highness Peter the Great, Day Forty-Nine_

_I fear that you have made a grave error in selecting me to search out America, your highness. It seems prudent that we should prepare for war, for we face it on both sides if the motherland is so intent on enfolding little America as its own. The climate no longer seems to favor us, but as we were born with ice in our veins, we fare marvelously in comparison to the English and French, who are steadily becoming discouraged in the face of this light frost. My spies have picked up news that a great number of the French fleets shall soon be replaced by fresh forces; if my liege would condone such actions, I would be at liberty to strike them down while they are scant and weak in the wilderness. _

_England strikes in me great uncertainty, as he is intent on winning this land he feels so adamantly is rightfully is. While my men continue the search for little America, he and his forces continue the march, growing increasingly frustrated, but they betray no signs of surrendering. My men are of a loyal and earnest breed, but while they enjoy the fruits of this strange and dangerous world, the lust for adventure is fading and they yearn for their hearths. Many suspect that we are chasing a hopeless venture. I fear I also feel the same._

Russia lowered his quill and closed his eyes. His log betrayed him; another unsuccessful day had come and gone, and the only 'good news' his spies had to bring him was that France and England had both been unsuccessful in their ventures of tracking down the little country.

It hardly seemed to register as good news anymore; even if one of the European nations managed to locate America, Russia was fairly certain his men would be able to take on at least one of the foreign units. It wasn't as if he weren't capable of bringing one down by himself if need be. Russia stared soberly at the flickering candle on his desk, staying his hand so that he didn't reach for the flask of vodka on his hip.

His men marched without complaint, though they could be seen massaging blistered feet near the fires at night. But while he could hold their trust, their frustration was very clearly beginning to show; they were skirting around dangerous territory with two other rival nations, looking for a hidden treasure. Engaging in hostilities with another country would only allow a third to slip through the cracks and hunt for America unmolested. If all three went into battle, their governments could very well take that as an open declaration of war. Russia snorted.

Not that France and England weren't in an almost perpetual state of war, anyway…..but Peter had told him to avoid war at all costs. Regardless of the means, Russia knew that he could topple England and France's claims on the New World, but finding America would mean a virtually bloodless war.

_Could mean,_ he reminded himself with a grim smile, helping himself to a hearty swig of vodka.

Russia pulled out a scroll of paper from his drawer, carefully scanning over the marked territory that he and his men had already scourged. He supposed the only option left was to go North….if he had to prepare for war, he would send out for reinforcements from the other Russia dividend and—

"_Stop_! Who goes there?"

Irritated, Russia looked up, his hand falling to his waist again, this time for his sword. The sentries he'd posted at his tent were speaking to someone. Ivan's eyes narrowed.

You had to have special clearance to speak with Captain Braginski, so who had come to see him? If it was England, Ivan would gladly send his head back to his men on a pike.

A breathless voice answered the guard's question.

"A message! Your lordship, we bring urgent news! Please, you must—"

Ivan strode across his tent in two strides and abruptly walked through the flap, the poor soldier jumping and saluting awkwardly, his red face darkening. His hair was plastered to his sticky forehead, and considering just how much the man was huffing and puffing, he had run from quite a long way.

"Da? And what is it?" asked Ivan, roughly but not unkindly. The soldier's eyes bulged in their sockets as he fought to answer, gasping.

"Sir, we have found the little country—the little America!"

Suddenly quite breathless himself, Russia seized the front of the man's uniform and shook him, harder than he'd intended to, considering the fact that the young soldier fell to the ground and all but cowered in Ivan's shadow.

_"Where is he?"_ Ivan demanded in Russian, voice harsh and guttural. _"Do you still know where he is?"_

"D-da! In a cave, my lord, three of us wandered into a cave to escape a crew of English soldiers…and we found the small one instead. I'd not laid eyes on him before, but it's unmistakably him. I ran to fetch you and the other two are looking after him, although he wouldn't get far if he tried—" The brown-haired man threw his head back and gasped like a flapping fish out of water. "—he wasn't moving at all, hardly breathing—"

Ivan's voice improved to the roar of the bear that he'd been nicknamed after, and even his two battle tough veterans recoiled like spooked horses, pale-faced and trembling.

**_"Why? Did you hurt him?" _**The noose would only be too kind.

"N-nyet, Your Excellency, nyet!" shrieked the soldier, cringing and shuffling back on the grass, though Ivan slowly advanced on him, his face alight with terrible glee. "Nyet! We saw him and didn't want to startle him, so we approached slowly and called out his name and he wouldn't answer! The boy's white as death and hot as a coal! His leg was bleeding, so we thought he might have gotten infected, and—"

Without another word, Ivan whipped his head towards the stable lad who had been watching the proceedings with large eyes. "Bring me my horse." The adolescent, who seemed only too glad to vacate the scene, ran off and the soldier was pulled to his feet. "You will show me the way at once. I will have Alexei take charge if this proves to be false news. And if it is," added Russia sweetly, "If you are not spies, and are simply unable to detain a sick child, your kin shall get whatever bits of you that are left, small and smoldered that they may be."

The whey-faced man just nodded, relief flooding his eyes, as if he'd fully expected Russia to kill the messenger then and there. The nation snapped out orders to several of his commanding officers, and the camp surged with life. "Nyet, only a small party. We cannot hurt him, and we mustn't frighten him, even if he is very sick. Let no one out of camp, lest we have English or French spies waiting to tip their forces off….fetch me our physician, and another horse. We might need some equipment."

As these things were hastily gathered, Ivan stared stoically at the Earth and tried to ignore the sickening lurch in Ivan's stomach. America was a new country, fresh to the diseases that had rampaged Europe and his own nation for thousands of years. What if the boy had been exposed to something truly devastating? Smallpox, cholera, typhus? He hadn't been able to develop an immunity to such things!

He mounted his white horse, a small party of carefully selected officers following him, alongside the still nervous-looking messenger and the doctor.

"This will be excellent news for His Majesty," Russia murmured softly to himself as he stroked his mare's nose, trying to calm his racing heart. The soldier nodded tensely as he mounted a speckled brown horse.

"Da, sir," he agreed, as Ivan's horse reared and raced out of camp, hooves thundering on the ground. "If America survives."

* * *

~*oOo*~

They rode for what might have been a few hours, or a few minutes. Russia was not certain which. Normally he was quite gentle with his steed, but this time he kicked the creature with his spurs until the horse was a cantering blur in the night, white mane and tail streaming out like ghosts. The was only just keeping pace, calling out the way every now and again as the horses dashed underneath the tunnel of trees. Ivan lay flat against his horse as the wind picked up, sending a fanfare of leaves tumbling about them as they raced on.

Regardless of how much time was passed on their journey, his guide at last pulled his horse to a stop, which was panting considerably. "There it is," he said, pointing to the great, yawning maw of a dark cave, which looked like a hungry mouth. "I didn't want to go in there, but Raivis said that it would be far better to run into some bats than an English squadron…n-not that I would be unwilling to fight!" he fretted as Ivan silently dismounted. "We walked for awhile, and we found the boy at the end of the cave….oh, God, I hope their light has not yet gone out…."

Ivan seized a lantern and strode into the cave. Four of Russia's men followed suit, nervously stepping around the stalagmites that looked so very much like teeth. "Oh…" Unseen wings flapped in the darkness in the darkness and the doctor cried out, hastening after Russia, who continued to walk soundlessly even as the cry echoed in the deep caverns. Something squished underneath a soldier's boot and the ma tried not to make a face as Russia broke into a run, his scarf flying out behind him. It was all the four could do to keep up.

Somewhere, in the dank, musty cave, water was drip-drip-dripping, the sound resonating to an echo.

Just as it seemed the tunnels would have no end, at last they found a faint firefly of light glowing in the distance, and the two rushed until they broke into a dark clearing, where two figures sitting on a large boulder looked up, their pinched faces looking relieved.

"About time! We've been waiting here for hours!" exclaimed the smaller soldier, barely out of boyhood. The taller soldier hastily pinched him. Russia strode forward, eyes keen.

"Where is….?"

The taller man gulped and moved aside; there, next to the miniscule lantern, was a small, raggedy parcel wrapped up in one of the soldiers' uniforms. Russia immediately knelt and tugged it forwards for a closer look.

"Is he gonna croak?" the small soldier asked nervously, only to get pinched again by his fellow. Russia did not answer him.

Ivan uncovered the shivering lump, his breath hitching, out of relief or fear, he wasn't sure.

_"America…."_ Russia breathed, looking down at the splotched mess of a limb and grimacing. It was spotted with a large bruise near the base of the wound, which was raw and angry-looking, coated with dirt and grime. Russia tentatively poked it, and hastily drew back when the child let out a whine.

The radiant, shy little boy he'd met just weeks ago was gone. Here was a boy with hair so dirty you almost could not tell it was yellow; only a few spikes of dull yellow hair were sticking up, dried and dusty. Rosy soft skin was covered with scabs and insect bites, and America's stomach was tiny, his ribs visible.

A pair of blue eyes opened, frightened and blurred, and they widened upon seeing the Slavic nation. With a whimper, America pulled away, scooting up until he hit the cave wall. He drew himself up into a small ball, planting his hands over his ears.

"Go away," whimpered America as Russia carefully swept him into furs, wrapping his poor body in warmth. "You're mean, like France and Engwand."

"Nyet." Russia tentatively brushed away the hair plastered to America's sweaty, sallow skin, but judging by America's wince, he hadn't been nearly gentle enough. "I will not take you to annex you as a Russian territory, little one. We're going to bring you to our camp and make you well again."

America struggled, but even Russia could tell the attempt was halfhearted. He screwed up his face and tears trickled down. "Leg hurts."

"I know." Russia hesitantly patted the boy's shoulder, and, feeling braver, pressed his lips to the boy's dirty head. The whimpering was echoing, like the crashing sound of a fallen bayonet. Someone had dropped theirs. "I'm sorry."

America hiccuped but said nothing. The physician hurriedly bent down and listened to the boy's heartbeat, which was somewhat difficult because Russia hadn't let go of him.

"I'm not well-versed in dealing with nations…" he murmured apologetically, taking America's wrist and listening carefully. "Hmmm. Well, he certainly has a fever, and that nasty gash must be cleaned, but only one other thing is settled: We must get him out of the damp."

That settled, Russia wrapped the furs more tightly around the small nation and strode out, his men hurrying in his wake, America's arms wound around his neck.

~*oOo*~

* * *

Russia had worried about French and English soldiers creeping in theshadows, but thankfully none came out to ambush his small party. Still, his horse had fled like lightning back to camp while the nation had hugged his small bundle of rags to himself.

"Why were you hiding in there, little one?"

Freshly bathed (the doctor had told Russia it was unhealthy, but what did he know?) and with a furry blanket around his shoulders, the nation lay on Russia's cot, still shivering slightly. There was a small tray with a steaming clay bowl in front of him, and Ivan nudged the spoon into America's hand encouragingly.

"Scary place." America took a reluctant bite of the cabbage soup before helping himself to another and another, gusto growing. "The food is good!"

Russia bit the inside of his mouth and forced a smile as the physician continued to study America's leg. "You like scary places, America?"

"No." America's eyes closed and he let out a squawk as the doctor's slathered something thick and oily on the nation's leg. "Scary is scar—ow! _Owwww!"_

"Forgive me," the man murmured apologetically, and America pushed his food away, tears dewing at the corners of his eyes. The child attempted to worm his way free from the doctor's grip, but Russia wrapped his arms around his torso and held him fast as the physician carefully began to scrub at the ugly wound, the tender maroon flesh around it improving to a shining red as it was cleaned. America thrashed, strong enough even in his ill state to nearly send Russia flying.

"Stings! Stings like bees!" he exclaimed tearfully, and Ivan fervently wished he knew what to do. Knocking America on the head might make him quiet, but the idea was abominable, and so Ivan went to the next thing on his list, the item that he used to fix a great deal of things. He grabbed the flask still on his desk and forced America lay down, even as the sick boy squirmed and fought.

"Drink this, _zaichick._"

The clear liquid slipped through America's lips.

"It burns!" the country sputtered, feebly trying to yank his head away, though Ivan's hand held onto his and held him still. "Yuck and burns!"

"Shhh, I know," Russia soothed, holding the bottle over America's mouth, which he had clasped tightly shut. "This will make you fall asleep for awhile."

America swallowed, fresh beads of sweat breaking out on his body.

"And…and that's good, right?"

Russia smoothed his hair and hushed him, a sad smile on his face. America couldn't quite keep the fear out of his voice.

"Da," murmured Ivan tenderly, kissing him again on the head. "Da. You will sleep, and when you wake up, your fever will be broken and your leg will feel better. You do not feel much pain when you are under."

America thought for a moment, and then cautiously took another sip, gagging slightly. "Ugggh, _bad_!" He exclaimed, trying to rip his head back, but the flask followed his lips. Ivan muttered soothingly until the grudging nation took two more swigs, clutching his throat. "Burns and tastes nasty," he complained. Ivan only chuckled.

"I think is nectar of gods. But chase it down with this," he said, handing the country a small tin cup of milk and honey. America frowned and sniffed at its cream-colored contents before taking a cautious sip, his eyes lighting up.

"It's good!" he chimed hoarsely, downing the contents in four long drafts. Russia smiled as America lowered the cup, a mustache on his face, blue eyes dreamy.

"Feel better?"

America shrugged absently, yawning.

"Feel heavy," he admitted, watching as the physician carefully wrapped his leg up in bandages, tying the ends neatly in a knot. His eyelids were sagging, and the country let out a yawn. "Leg still hurts," he added, somewhat reproachfully, as if he were afraid Russia would forget that America was still angry at him.

"I'm sorry," Russia apologized, uncertainly hovering as the doctor drew away. Wringing his hands like a frightened child approaching a strange animal, Ivan carefully pulled the country onto his lap. America wriggled but didn't pull away, and soon Ivan was cradling him, one large hand cupped over America's head.

He didn't realize that he'd been humming until America looked up at him curiously.

"Thas pretty," he said, voice slurred. "Whasit?"

Ivan blinked, his long, pale face glowing with embarrassment. He looked away.

"It is called 'Brother Ivan,'" he said shakily, sending the doctor a smile that suggested that if he spoke of the happenings, Ivan would impale him. The physician gulped, his face turning an unpleasant green. "My sister used to sing it to me."

America's eyes widened. "You have a sister?"

Russia smiled, a large, awkward thing, though his eyes twinkled.

"Da, two. Ukraine will adore you. Belarus, well..." He swallowed and smiled again, blinking when America's hand sleepily brushed over his prominent nose. "She will be a little…_difficult _to win over, but I am sure she will love you very much."

"'m not gonna be a colony," America said crossly, pouting. "Wanna be friends with Ivan. Not cause of land."

"I know," Russia responded gently, kissing him on the head. "I would like that also. Go to sleep now."

Bleary-eyed, America just looked at him for a moment before settling his head in Russia's shoulder, and the larger country pulled the furs back over him.

"Tell me somethin' good," America burbled. "Like one of Engwand's stories."

_So this was the thrill of holding a child. _Russia tacitly ignored America's reference to the blustering nation and squeezed his tiny hand.

"Very well." Ivan leaned his head back and frowned thoughtfully. "Hmm…once, a man had a daughter he named Vasilisa the Beautiful, and rightfully so, for the fish would leap out of the streams to better admire her and no butterfly would emerge from their cocoon until she had passed, shamed by her beauty. Her mother gave her a tiny wooden doll that she claimed would always help her, if she gave it a tiny bit of food and water. It was good that she did, because one day, Vasilisa's wicked stepmother sent her to a witch's house, a house which stood on chicken legs."

The candle began to sink, waxy tears oozing down the slender stalk, and the tent grew dimmer. When Russia was halfway through his story, he realized the child had long ago fallen asleep. Strange and trusting creature! He felt a stab of pity for the boy.

The physician cleared his throat, and Russia almost jumped, very nearly dislodging America. He'd forgotten to dismiss him.

"How long can we keep America doped before his health is threatened?" Russia asked softly, his voice urgent, strained. The doctor blinked.

"I can give him a draught or two to keep him quiet for the rest of the night," he said hesitantly, his brow creasing as Russia turned his attention back to the baby. "Though he looks exhausted, and the vodka should be enough to settle him. No need to waste our drugs."

Something flickered in Ivan's dark eyes.

"I want you to dope him enough to make him sleep until tomorrow night." The physician started.

"Why, what do you mean to do, Your Excellency?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Russia asked sardonically, lying America down and tucking him in before kneeling by the boy's side. "Fetch for me my officers. We must prepare the ship. And the men. Send word to our brothers up North that the time has come to go home."

"Home?"

"We are going home to the motherland, of course," said Russia simply, dragging a hand through America's messy yellow hair. "With the boy. The king will be thrilled to see him."

"You want to take the boy off American soil?" asked the old doctor, his brow crinkling, his troubled eyes reflecting pain. "I...do not know if..."

"It is Russian soil now," Ivan breathed, eyes sparkling. "Rich, lush soil. By the end of this year, when the English and French have been driven out, America will be marked as a Russian territory, and our people can begin building homesteads."

"I thought your orders were to try and win America over," the graying man faltered. "And to not kidnap him unless under the most extreme circumstances—"

"Do you presume to question me?" Ivan asked sweetly. The doctor cringed.

"N-nyet, my lord. But what of the boy? He will have no choice but to allow Russian forces to take control of his country once he is on our soil, but chances are he's never left his homeland," the physician said warningly, resentfully. "He'll be weak if he's separated from his country for too long."

"He'll be well," said Russia dismissively, as the doctor reluctantly handled him a glass phial that he pressed against America's lips. "I will take good care of him. He's mine."

* * *

"Did America agree to leave with Russia?"

"_Non, mon capitaine_," reported the soldier, saluting respectfully. "I believe they doped him and are hoping to whisk him away by dawn. To the Russian capitol."

Francis swirled the contents of his wine glass around, staring at his own, displeased reflection. He swore quietly in French.

"You realize that America will be much weaker on Russian soil," he said softly, pinching the bridge of his nose with the tips of his fingers and sighing dramatically. "Not to mention Russia has his ghastly weather protecting his land….well, I suppose this is good news for us. At least we won't have to thrust our hands into the mud searching for the _petit chouchou_. It ends tomorrow at dawn."

"Capitaine?" asked the soldier in some confusion as France poured his civilian a glass of wine and offered it to him, smirking.

"Let us have a drink, shall we, Jacques?" he asked languidly. "We will cut the Russian forces off before they can get to the harbor—no doubt England's already heard of Ivan's foolish scheme by now, and will be chasing from the opposite side. We'll trap Russia's fleet in a deadlock, and I'll let our French spies in Arthur's pitiable army tell _Angleterre_ that they've captured America. While they rush off with the dummy and Russia pursues them, we will take the real America to France."

"It sounds ingenious, sir."

"It does, doesn't it?" France raised his glass in a toast, and his soldier loyally clanked his own glass against it. "To our new territory, to glory, to France."

"To our new territory, to glory, to France."

~*oOo*~


End file.
